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SOUT HE R N LITER AR Y GAZE TT E
A WEEKLY JOURNAL OF LITERATURE, SCIENCE AND ART.
i> ;i. C, RICHARDS, Editor.
Original j'Jactvii.
For the Southern Liierary Gazette.
■ MAUCII SONNETS.
Y WM . C . RI C lIAIIDS.
I.
}1 ill to thee, March ! though with small grace thou
• contest,
K ude blu. tcrer ! • Not a whit of care thou hast,
Whose cheek thou kisscst with thy saucy blast,
While with sr/ag froid where’er thou wilt thou
hummest, *
Stemming the school-boy with half-truant cloak,
Who vainly struggles to pursue his track,
And fain, at length, to turn on thee his back,
Takes grateful shelter le ward of an oak ;
Or sweeping th’ old forest-aisles, till the sky
Is choked with leaves, for dust, which whirl and fly,
Like swallows on a summer eve. And ah !
If oanst but find a poet’s door ajar—
Whew ! how thou rustiest in with knowing wink,
And scattercst his papers, pens and ink.
11.
Nor these are all thy pranks. Full well thou
knowest,
Bold elf, the line where thrifty housewife hangs
Her snow-white linen, fast with wooden fangs,
A ml thither straightway with a shout thou goest,
Filling with empty wind'the shirt or gown,
An l swelling out the sheet like flying sail —
And if perchance a single peg cloth fail,
Thou clappest hands to see it draggling down.
Out comes the housewife to repair her loss',
Fuming with rage ; but thou a copper’s toss
Host eare not, and the scolding dame’s lip kissest,
in which thing, saucy March, I think thou missest
It; but when next a fretty lass thou greetest,
1 make r.o uoubt thou think’st her lips the sweetest.
wmlll hmm■! n ■ i in w r maitwz-ztb:* vji’* -. * ux*
Popular ®aUs.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
- h A ROULETTE.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.
CHAPTER VI.
When ten o'clock in the evening arrived,
without her husband, Emilic became very un
easy; Julian always returned at nine, and
she knew not to what to attribute his pro
longed absence. The fears of a young wife,
who adores her husband, are easily excited.
Eleven sounded, and Julian had not appear
ed. She sent for M. Menard and her mother :
they hastened to console her, although they
shared equally her inquietude. Half the
night passed, and Julian returned not.
“My God! what can have happened
cried Emilie, weeping.
She ran to the window and returned, ut
tering the most distressing cries. M. Menard
himself did not know what to think of his
son’s absence; the saddest presentiments fill
ed his mind. The idea occurred to him, to
open his son's cabinet, which, to his aston
ishment, he found locked; the door yielded to
his efforts, opened, and presented to his view
the fatal roulette.
“Oh, heavens!” cried he, “the unfortunate
boy has been gambling, and has killed him
self.”
Emilie, terrified at his words, sprang to
wards her father, and fell at his feet without
consciousness. From this moment, the house
was filled with the cries and lamentations of
these unfortunates; every moment threatened
to destroy the life of Emilie. The night was
one of anguish and sorrow.
At six o'clock in the morning, a carriage
drove slowly into the Rue de l’Universite,
and stopped before the house of Julian. A
man, decently clothed, who was following on
foot, ascended the stairs, and finding the door
open, he walked up to M. Menard, who was
supporting the head of his daughter-in-law,
her frequent fainting fits having become
ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAV, MARCH 10, 1849.
alarming. With a sad air, he asked him if
he was not the father of M. Menard, the ad
vocate.
“Yes, sir. Heavens! what do you come
to tell me ?”
“ Your son—sir 11
“ I undeistand you ; my son is dead!”
At these words, Emilie opened her wild
eyes: “Your son! my husband! where is
he Without waiting for an answer, she
ran down the stairs, opened the door—some
drops of blood covered a body; the unfortu
nate fell backwards, and her head struck
heavily on the pavement.
Three weeks after, in a chamber plainly
but modestly furnished, a young wife was
leaning on the holster of a bed, on which was
lying a sick man, whose head was so envel
oped in bandages, that it was impossible to
see any of his features. The head of the
young wife was also surrounded with a
bandage; her face was pale and thin; she
held upon her knees a young infant, which
she was nursing; her eyes were moistened
with tears. She looked with an air of un
quiet tenderness, first upon the child, and
then upon the sick man. In the embrasure
of a window sat an aged female in an old
rocking chair. Her head was bent upon her
bosom : the large drops of tears silently roll
ed down her hollow cheeks, and fell upon
her withered hands. Near a table sat an old
man, whose sorrow appeared still violent;
his eyes wandered in the chamber, and seem
ed to fear resting upon the least object. All
his attitudes indicated a man whose soul was
given up to the most violent emotions. Some
one struck lightly at the door of this place of
sorrow, and the three suffering persons arose
simultaneously to open it. A man clothed
in black entered, and softly approached the
bed of the sick man. The three others re
mained behind, and were so attentive to his
least movements, that they seemed to avoid
breathing. The surgeon raised with precau
tion the head of the sick man—examined and
dressed his wound with the tenderest care.
This operation being finished, he turned to
wards the three persons, whose looks seemed
to interrogate him.
“The wound is doing well,” said he to
them; “his state is satisfactory.”
“For mercy's sake,” said the young wife,
clasping her hands, “is there any more dan
ger for his life
“ His wound is not mortal; the ball was
directed by a trembling hand, and traversed
the cheek without injuring any vital organ.”
‘* He will live then, you assure me?”
“ 1 would assure you, if he had but this
wound; but his mind is so affected! The
sorrow which gnaws him is his most danger
ous enemy. You must inspire hope in his
wounded soul.”
And the physician retired, after having re
plied to all the questions which the tender
ness of the young wife could suggest, and
having given her all the directions which he
thought necessary to recall the sick man to
life. Emilie, taking her infant in her arms,
approached the bed on tiptoe; she kissed the
head of the sick man. and in a feeble and op
pressed voice, said :
“Julian! Julian! look at me, my friend;
do not turn away your head ;it is me—it is
your Emilie. You weep; oh! so much the
better; that will comfort you. See, my tears
flow also, but they are tears of joy. The
surgeon has assured us that your wound is
not dangerous. Julian, do not regret it ; you
know how much wc all love you; your fa
ther and my mother would die of sorrow if
you were to succumb to yours, and I would
not survive them. Julian, my friend, think
on your chil l.'”
At this moment, someone struck loudly at’
the door. M. Menard, as if awakened out of j
a painful dream, rose ailrightedly, and went j
to open it.
“ Does not M. Menard, the advocate, live
here ?” demanded the person who had knock
ed so violently.
“Yes, sir; hut it is impossible to speak to
him ; he is on the bed of death.”
“ Ah! lie 1 ives here, does lie ; so much the
better —for four hours I have been hunting
him. I went first to the Rue de l’Universite;
this was the street they said he lived in; 1
knocked and rang at all the houses, hut no
person knew M. Menard. I was returning,
having given up all hope of finding his house,
when an old woman, to whom I had first ad
dressed myself, ran after me, bawling at the
top of her voice : ‘Monsieur! Monsieur! the
young man whom you are enquiring for, is
it not the one who blew out his brains about
a month since V ‘ I know nothing about it,’
replied I, ‘for 1 do not know him; but, how
ever, it would be very unfortunate for him !
for they would not be able to tell him, then :
hut sometimes, good fortune happens after
death.’ Then she told me that the young
man was now living in the Rue St. Severin.
No. 15. Not understanding how a young
man who had blown out his brains could
live anywhere else but in the Ceme'ery, I
thought that the old fool was raving; but let
me come to the fact. Since M. Menard lives
here, and consequently, has not blown out
his brains, can I have the honor of speaking
to him I”
“ I believe that I have already informed
you, that it is impossible; but I am his father,
and if ■”
“Ah! Monsieur is the father of M. Me
nard, the advocate ; then, sir, permit me to
present to you my very humble respects.”
“ Will you enter, sir, and take a seat, and
inform me of the motive of your visit V’
“ Willingly.”
The unknown entered, and took a seat
which M. Menard offered him, and con
tinued :
“ Since Monsieur is the father of M. Me
nard, the advocate, he knows, without doubt,
AI. Gerard, one of the richest capitalists of
Paris I”
AT. Menard reflected a few moments, and
then replied :
“ No, sir, I do not know him ; I have some
recollection of a man named Gerard, accused,
i some time since, of a capital crime, whom
i my son defended ; but this man was poor —it
j cannot be he.”
••It is the same, sir. This man had but
! one relation, whose fate he was ignorant of;
this relation had gone to exercise his indus
try in the United States : he there amassed a
j colossal fortune; lie die!, and Gerard, poor
as Job, became rich as Croesus. But he did
! not long enjoy his fortune, for he died three
i days afterwards.”
“And his fortune goes, I suppose, to the
State and”
“ No, it belongs to your son.”
“Explain yourself!”
“My explanation will not le long. Two
j days before his death, M. Gerard sent for M.
| Blonde], notary, my patron, to whom I have
the honor of being principal clerk, and, plac
ing a paper in his hand, said to him : • This
! is my will: I confide it to you' —and in this
j will was written simply these words: ‘Not
i leaving any relation after my death, I insti
tute my sole legatee*M. Menard, advocate.
Rue de l'Universite, No. 9. I make a dona
-1 lion to him of all my goods, without any ex
ception or reserve ; and this, as a witness of
my gratitude.’ He place ! a letter afterwards
VOLUME I. —NUMBER 13.
in his hand to his address, praying him to
send it when lie no,longer existed. This is
the letter; as you are his father, I do not sec
any reason to prevent your reading it.”
M. Menard took the letter; Emilie and
Madame Bcllemont having approached him.
lie read, in a trembling voicp-:
“ Sir—l am nfcar the tomb : when you read
this letter, the hand which traced its charac
ters will be cold in death. I die before inv
time, exhausted by suffering, my soul afflicted
by the painful emotions which have agitated
it during the course of my sad life; and to
increase my regret for this life of sorrow,
fortune presents to mv pale lips, upon the
bed of death, the enchanted cup of her fa
vors. The only relation l had, left me, at
his death, a considerable fortune. I die also,
and I give it to you —for who is more worthy
of it than you! The injustice of other men
has condemned me to a premature death, and
you, my liberator, you drew me from the
scaffold, which would have been stained with
my blood. Oh ! I conjure you, if an unfor
tunate man, unjustly accused, presents him
self to you, do not refuse to assist him with
your eloquence; if he is poor, open to him
your purse ; if he has a family, protect and
defend them against the iniquity of men. —
You will possess immense riches—let a part
of it be destined to assist the unfortunate. —
Behold my last prayer. My strength is van
ishingr -my life ending. Adieu.”
Who can express the surprise, the joy
with which the father of Julian, his wife,
and mother-in-law, were seized ?
“Oh! Julian.” cried Emilie, running to the
bed of the dying man, and fainting by his
side; but a fainting fit. caused by excess of
joy, is not of long duration. She re-opened
her eyes, and turned them, full of joy, upon
her husband.
“Julian,*’ said she, “return to life, return
to health; now you are immensely rich. Ju
lian, dry- your tears, which make me misera
ble ; you will now be able to satisfy the de
sires of your soul, to be humane, to be gen
erous; now you will he happy, since your
happiness is to see me in the bosom of riches;
and these riches, Julian, will he so much the
more agreeable to me, since they arc the re
compense of your noble actions. Oh! Ju
lian, do not die; it is the truth, I swear it to
you, you have an immense fortune.”
The young advocate, at the words, * riches,’
‘fortune,’ as if he had awoke out of a pro
found lethargy, made H violent effort to raise
his head ; a brilliant light shone in his eyes,
J which soon closed, and a deep sigh escaped
l from his bosom.
I “ Julian, you do not believe me; you think
! that it is a subterfuge which I make to de
ceive you, to prevent your suffering more:
! but no, it is the truth. Oh, rny God! how
shall l make him belicwe it. Come, for mer
cy sake, my mother! my father! and you,
Monsieur, the notary', come, I conjure you.
He does not believe me ; his head has fallen,
and his eyes are closed. Oh, heaven f what
a bitter smile upon his lips! Como, he will
at least believe you. Have pity upon me,
for mercy’s sake.”
They all approached the bed.
“My son, my friend,” sai l his father to
him, “ Emilic has told you theVuth ; do not
be any more disconsolate. Do you recollect
Gerard, whom your eloquence saved frorjk
the scaffold 1 He i.s dead, and has left vow
i the immense riches which he inherited from
the only relation he had left. Listen to the
letter which he wrote to you in dying.”
M. Menard re-commenced reading the let
t ter of Gerard, and while he was reading, Ju-
I Tian seemed to support himself with more